


Dear God

by applepogo



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: 1700s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Historically Accurate, Lots of song references, M/M, Minecraft, Running Away, Secret Lovers, Slow Burn, Teen Romance, dream got that golden retriever type beat, dream has fluffy hair because i said so, dreamnotfound, first dnf fic help, george is only soft for dream smh, im sorry, village boys, yes sapnaps here too :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28591449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepogo/pseuds/applepogo
Summary: The year is 1723.Their love is forbidden.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 5





	Dear God

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I’m applepogo, this is my first ever ao3 piece and i hope you enjoy! <3

Sunshine rays stretched out to tickle the first blades of green that enveloped the lush soil beneath them. If you were wealthy enough to afford one, the clock would have read 6:45am. Due to his rather unfortunate economic state, George Davidson, did not own one. However, this proved to not be a nuisance in his situation, George was not the smartest person in the world but he did have enough sense to know that you can use a candle to imitate the ring of an alarm clock. 

Set by his bedside on his, rather chipped stool, sat George’s candle. A single pin forcefully rammed into the white wax, just waiting on tenterhooks to promptly tumble into the metal pan below. With a relatively loud clang, George awoke, kicking his quilt down to the end of his bed. 

Before we get further into this story, there’s something you should know about George; he’s an asshole, seriously. He was never the one to be kind, although his mother did scold him for it. No one could remember the last time they saw him smile, of course, he wasn’t always like that. There were one or two people who actually got to see that endearing smile of his. 

Fully dressed in a sort of white shirt and brown shorts, partner with a belt, George's soft footsteps echoed down the stairs, avoiding the creaky ones, and into the kitchen. This happened every morning, a ravenous George would barge in, scaring his poor mother half to death, scouring the drawers until he found a knife. He would recklessly slice a block of cheese into thin rectangles and place them immediately on his buttered bread. ‘Oh George!’ his mother reprimanded ‘how many times have i told you to be careful with the knife!’. His back was turned as he rolled his eyes, ‘Mother, you know I have no time in the mornings.’ He said through a mouthful of bread. ‘Keep your mouth closed while you’re eating, it’s co-‘ He chose not to listen to her petty comments, scrambling he grabbed the handle of his trusty satchel and whipped round the door, a hearty ‘Love you!’ still ringing in the now silent kitchen. 

The moist spring air of May glided along George’s bare legs as he prowled the roads of his home town. He loved the town centre in the early sunday mornings, it was always so peaceful as people bustled around setting up their market stalls, hoping to get some good sales. Now, if you’re wondering where George was headed, it’s the library, it’s always the library. Unfortunately, his family’s finances weren’t high so education was out of the question. George visited the library to learn, he felt like he owed his mother after all she had done for him in the eighteen years he’d been living, even if she was a bit strict at times. Under the mean surface, he was caring, at least for his mother anyway. 

Glancing up at the sign that read ‘Lydmere Library est. 1684’ George pushed open the small oak door and entered. The smell of books washed over him, he let his eyes close as he breathed it in. Ah, knowledge he thought to himself, striding over to the shelf’s, stacked with books so high up anyone would need a ladder. He ran his dainty fingers over the spines of the works, some dustier than others, until he found what he was looking for. Plucking a book from the company of the others he brushed the dust that had settled ‘The History of Ancient England’ the title read. 

After he had signed the book out with a flourish he departed from the building. He was headed to his favourite spot to read, the local well. The grass was dry by then and George took a seat, resting his back against the cobblestone, the cold of the brick slithering through the stitches of his shirt, making him shiver. Now relaxed he went to take his new book out of his satchel, hearing lose shillings jingle as he extracted it. Lazily, he flicked to the first chapter ‘The Mystery of StoneHenge.’ and began to read. 

George preferred to read books in one sitting, if possible, so that is why the sun was at the highest point in the sky when he first looked up. Midday? How long have I been here? he pondered to himself as his stomach gave a loud rumble, he chose to ignore it. 

An hour had passed before George looked up again, suddenly realising just how hungry he was. Pulling himself to his feet and using the wall for support he stuffed the book back inside his satchel before he decided lunch was way overdue. He strolled along the market looking for the bread stall. After around five minutes of searching he found it, eyes fixed on one of the baguettes on display. Hungrily, he approached preparing himself for social interaction. ‘I’ll have one of your baguettes please.’ he said looking up at the man behind the table. That was when he locked eyes with him, the blond haired,  
green eyed, freckle adorned stranger. The volume of his hair was so immense it seemed to practically bounce every time he turned his head. ‘That will be three shillings sir!’ he said extremely politely, George rummaged around in his satchel, searching for stray coins. Finally pulling some out and dropping them into the blondes open hand. He took the bread in his left hand as the other put out his right.

‘The name's Dream’ he beamed.


End file.
